Not An End, But the Start of All Things
by bellatrix-la-dumb
Summary: My rewrite of season 4 in which Quentin doesn't die, Eliot is free of the Monster, and they slowly figure out the rest of their lives together.
1. Almost Me Again

**I finally decided I wanted to post this, even though it did not turn out at all like I intended. But I've really come to like it. I originally planned on this being a really fluffy reunion fic, but somewhere along the way it turned into some sort of angsty essay on the morals of magic with a bit of sappy rom-com fluff sprinkled in. I would be surprised if anyone other than me would find that interesting, but who knows.**

* * *

The windows were shattered. Glass littered the floor. Dust, angry, unsettled, hung in the air. Furniture was upturned, charred, torn, broken. The ever-unlucky group was scattered amongst the mess, thrown by the shock wave, burnt and bruised and bleeding. For a moment, everything was still.

But Quentin, like an unkillable cockroach, dragged himself to his hands and knees, desperately making his way over the debris to the one thing that mattered, the only thing that he had given a shit about in recent memory. The thing that had consumed his thoughts and dredged him up from the inky darkness every time he slipped in too deep.

He laid in the midst of it all, in a patch of black-scorched floor, smoke curling from his skin like he was a meteor that had just fallen from the heavens and crashed into the earth. One hand laid limp on his chest, head turned to the side, eyes closed. He looked as if he were sleeping.

Quentin didn't realize he was crying. His hands found their way to Eliot's chest, palms pressing against the fevered skin above his heart. He froze for a moment, attempting to withhold his sobs. But he could feel it. The strong beating of his heart, the expansion of his lungs. He let out a hysterical laugh, grabbing at his face, pale and hollow and powdered with dust. He couldn't help but let his fingers roam, desperate to feel the planes of Eliot's face after what felt like years of holding back. Tangled in matted curls, dipping into hollowed eye sockets, feeling the hot breath slipping from between his parted lips. He could feel the stirring of his body, the fluttering of his eyes as he awoke, his wavering stare as he took in the man above him, the curl of his mouth as he croaked out the words.

"Where can a guy get some pizza around here? I'm starving."

And Quentin could only drop his head to Eliot's shoulder, body shaking with tearful laughter as relief seeped deep into his tired bones. Eliot was alive. He was alive, and he was here in his arms, and that was all he could have ever hoped for.

He never thought he'd see Brakebills again.

After the dust had cleared and everyone was upright again, they'd resolved to swing by the Brakebills infirmary to get Eliot checked out. After hours of tests, everything came back clear. There had been no negative side effects of the Monster's possession or the spell used to dispel it. They had just recommended a good meal and some sleep to negate the Monster's lack of self care. Quentin was stunned. The universe had never given him a break like this. Either all the bad luck that had been doled to him had finally earned him some good karma for a change, or this was just some sort of sick fake out that gods were pulling to fuck with him. He couldn't help but dwell on the latter.

He was currently picking at his nails while hunched in an uncomfortable chair pulled up beside Eliot's infirmary bed. The room was quiet, recently vacated by the rest of the group as they drifted off to deal with other things, discarded pizza boxes littering every available surface. Eliot was picking at the final piece in the box on his lap; whether he was finally full or trying to avoid talking, Quentin couldn't tell, for he'd lost count of how many pieces he had scarfed down after the second box because he couldn't bear to look at him any longer.

Everything he did reminded him of the Monster. The ravenous, messy way he ate, so unlike the dignified Fillorian king he once was. The loose, uncomfortable way he held himself, the mirth full glint in his eyes. Quentin knew that he was being unreasonable, he had just been possessed only hours before, but he couldn't stop himself from seeing flashes of those wide, crazed eyes, hearing the low, menacing voice that had haunted him for months. The longer he spent next to him, the more his stomach bubbled and churned. The silence only amplified his thoughts, which had coagulated into a thick, noxious soup sloughing around in his skull. What if the Monster wasn't dead? What if this was another one of its games, a new form of torture as punishment for trying to kill it? What if Eliot was truly gone? What if he never got him back?

"Why won't you look at me?"

Quentin started, eyes snapping up to meet Eliot's soft, concerned stare. He quickly looked away again, blinking away the vision of the drunken, blood-spattered form of the Monster that seemed to plastered to the backs of his eyelids. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache starting to form between his eyes. He hadn't eaten much, hadn't really eaten anything the past few days. Or slept for that matter. Every moment had been focused on ridding Eliot of the Monster, he hadn't had time for much else.

"Q?"

He looked up again, attempting to maintain eye contact. But this time it was the genuine concern bathing Eliot's features that caused him to shy away again.

His eyes dropped back down to his lap. He swallowed hard, and it was then when he realized just how much his hands were shaking. "You. . .you still look like him."

"Oh."

Silence engulfed them again, a trilling hum that was drowned out by the pulsing of blood in his head. He licked his lips, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, fingers worrying at the dark red stain embedded in the fabric.

He could hear the bed creaking as Eliot shifted, placing the pizza box to the side. When he looked up he saw him tossing the covers off and swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He gave Quentin a tense smile that looked more like a grimace.

"Well, I guess we'll have to do something about that."

His head was spinning at the constant change in setting. He was curled up on one of the couches in the common room of the Physical Kids' cottage, lost in thought with an untouched glass of water set beside him by Julia an hour before.

They'd had to flag down Penny to zap them over here because Eliot was too weak to walk across campus. It made Quentin sick to see how much pain he was in, how the Monster's terrible treatment of his body had actually come to fruition. They popped in to find Margo still in her Kingly garb talking to Julia at the bar, the former of which jumping up to whisk Eliot away to finally get him cleaned up. Quentin hadn't said a word, just collapsing back onto the couch once the room had cleared, unable to find the energy to respond to Julia when she came over to ask if he was okay. She slipped out soon after, and he was alone.

Alone for the first time in months.

Between the Monster shadowing him like a clingy child and Julia acting as the helicopter parent he'd never wanted, he'd rarely had a moment to himself. It was suffocating. He could hardly collect his thoughts, or shower or sleep or eat with the constant reminder of all his failures popping in and giving him hell, or Julia tagging behind to dust him off and set him on his feet again like a glass figurine that had been shattered and glued back together a few too many times.

He didn't know if he liked the silence that came with solitude.

He sometimes feared that silence. Nothing there to drown out his thoughts. Nothing to stop the little voice in his head. But sometimes, like now, the voice slowly faded out and nothing came in to replace it. His mind was like an empty stage, a spotlight shining upon a lonely microphone. He was too tired to think. Too tired to even criticize himself for letting things get this far. He needed some sleep.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. He stirred ever so slightly and felt his legs tingle painfully. How long had it been? Hours? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he was extremely uncomfortable but couldn't bring himself to move.

Eliot was propped up on Margo's shoulder as she helped him hobble his way down the stairs and into the living room. Something in his stomach twisted at the way his face screwed up in pain from each step. But Margo was gleaming. She didn't seem to see any problem with the current situation, and why would she? All that mattered was that she finally had her Eliot back. Quentin couldn't help but sour at the radiant grin spanning her cheeks.

"Your Prince Charming has arrived!" She announced, sweeping her free hand in front of Eliot, as if she were Vanna White presenting the winning phrase. He couldn't help but sour more, because of course everyone knew about his feelings now. It was like a high school crush. One person finds out about it and by the next day the whole school knows and is teasing you about it. He hated it. It was a personal, intimate thing, and maybe he just wanted it to stay that way for a little bit longer. But he had to just go and blurt it out in the middle of a meeting of the minds and ruin everything. Everyone knew his little secret and suddenly treated him differently because of it.

The sound of Eliot clearing his throat brought everything into focus again. He stood a few feet away from him, arms spread and face placating. "How-how do I look?"

And Quentin finallyreallylooked at him.

He was dressed in one of his pre-Fillory, pre-High King outfits. Rich brown dress pants with a off-white button up and a tan corduroy vest. His hair was shorter, shorter even than when they first met, styled and coiffed to try and imitate his old style. He looked so different without the blood and grime marring his face, fresh and clean. But he wasn'tEliot. In all his height he somehow managed to look so small. He stood with his shoulders hunched, whether it be from pain or that familiar desire to disappear that Quentin knew all too well. Without that heavy trench coat, it was all too clear what harrowing effects possession by the Monster had upon his body. He was thin, painfully thin, the Monster's flaky diet causing him to lose weight he originally couldn't afford to lose. His clothes were just a bit too big, hanging off his frame as if they were not made for him. His knobby fingers fidgeted nervously at his vest buttons. He wasn't wearing any rings. Quentin could see the sharp edges of his cheek bones as his eyes darted along the floor. It made him sick.

Margo stood in the background, hands on her hips, looking Eliot up and down as if admiring her own work. "You know, it's not spot on--I gave up trying to salvage those precious curls and just gave him the big chop--but at least he's not wearing one of those Gods-awful graphic tees."

Eliot looked back at her, and must have communicated something Quentin didn't catch, because she put her hands up and started backing towards the stairs.

"Okay, okay, I'll leave you boys alone. Gods know you two need to talk." She turned and gave them another grin. "Just don't forget to include me if things start getting steamy." And then she disappeared up the stairs.

Quentin wanted to throw up.

There was a pause that held the start of a thousand sentences as they both bore holes into the floor trying to avoid looking at each other.

"I guess the makeover didn't help?"

Quentin took a shaky breath and glanced up at him, stomach sinking at the way he hung his head, arms wrapped around himself in a way that he would call pathetic if he were anyone other than Eliot Waugh.

"I-I. . ." He bit his lip, head shaking as he felt his eyes begin to burn.Suck it up, Coldwater."I can't stand to see you like this when I know I'm the one who caused it."

Eliot rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh, taking two short steps forward and easing himself down onto the other side of the couch. Quentin didn't miss the pained look on his face.

"Q, I'm not going to get into this argument right now. I know you well enough to know that you're going to blame yourself for everything that happened, but can we maybe just skip over all that and agree that it's possible for other people to make bad decisions too? Because I know that I fucked up, and I faced the consequences for it. I hate what I did and I hate what it did to you. But instead of wallowing in all our self-deprecation, why don't we just move on and live our lives already? I'm done with living in the past."

Eliot turned towards him, propping himself up on the back of the couch. There were dark purple rings under his eyes. He needed sleep too.

"In my head, when I was possessed, I was in this memory version of Breakbills, where I could walk through a door and relive any memory I wanted. When I broke through--to you--I had to find a special door, one hidden in my most repressed memory.

"It took a while, but I finally figured out which one it was." He looked up at him through his eyelashes. "It was when I. . .when I turned you down, after we got back to the future, after the 'proof of concept.'"

Quentin swallowed, listening intently, his breath caught in his throat.

"I told you--memory you--that when I got back," Eliot's voice was growing thicker, the fingers worrying at the folds of his pants were shaking, "I would finally muster up the courage to accept your offer."

Quentin was still. It felt like he hadn't taken a breath in ages. It felt like he couldn't move.

Eliot looked up at him again, straight on this time, face soft and eyes shining. His voice was just above a whisper. "Q, I love you."

The was another bought of silence, a terrible, screaming silence that echoed between them, growing more intense with each passing second. He fucking hated the silence.

"El," he choked out, "I can't-"

Eliot immediately turned away. Quentin's heart dropped into his stomach. He wanted to reach out, pull him back, wipe away the tears that were trailing down his cheeks, but he couldn't find the will to move. It was beginning to scare him.

It was only when Eliot went to get up that something powerful enough stirred inside him and sent him rushing forward the grab Eliot's hand.

"Wait, no please--please just--stay," Quentin gasped, latching onto Eliot's hand with both of his own. It was the first time they'd touched--reallytouched--in months.

It was then that Quentin finally realized that Eliot had just told him that helovedhim. He'd just professed his love for him and he hadn't feltanything. He hadn't felt anything in a long time.Numb. He'd thought it would go away when he finally got Eliot back, that a switch would be flipped and everything would be good again. But nothing had changed. He had the love of his life right in front of him, but he didn't feel happy. He felt nothing. That dark, viscous nothing that had been lurking inside him his whole life, that sometimes leeched it's way into his brain and made him feel worthless, empty, nothing,numb. He'd figured out how to cope with it before, but he'd never let it get this far before. He'd never gotten in this deep.

He was terrified.

He gripped tight onto Eliot's hand, tears welling up in his eyes until he couldn't see. "I-I think I'm broken, El."

And Eliot seemed to understand, at least a little bit, because he sat back down and pulled Quentin into his arms, sniffling as he set his chin into his hair and let out a quivering "I think I'm broken too."

* * *

**If you liked this, don't hesitate to tell me what you thought! I know the Magicians fandom is dead af right now so I thought I might give you some quality queliot content. **


	2. There's a Hole Where Your Heart Lies

**As I assumed, this didn't get any traction on here. But for the three people who will stumble upon this, here's some cute angsty stuff: **

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He felt like he'd gotten ground under all eighteen wheels of a speeding semi after having all the blood drained from his body because he was dying of the plague.

He cracked open his dry eyes and blinked into the searing light pouring through the open curtains. His head was pounding like he had downed an entire liquor cabinet and then slammed his head into a wall for good measure. Finally being back in his body was great, don't get him wrong, but why did it have to be so fucking painful?

With a muffled groan, he shifted to his side in an attempt to block out the sunlight and was met with the sight of Quentin lying beside him.

He rubbed at his eyes as if he were seeing a mirage, and propped himself up on his elbow. What happened yesterday? Everything after his violent and painful reclamation of his body was a haze, but scattered images began floating the surface of his brain. The dust sifting through the air as he looked through his own eyes for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Quentin's watering eyes as he hovered over him, his tears dripping onto his face. Clumps of his matted hair slipping down his shirt and onto the floor, the sharp, metallic snips of Margo's scissors. Quentin telling him that he was broken, sobbing so fitfully into his chest that Eliot was afraid that he could never fix him. Telling Quentin he loved him.

He had been planning that speech for ages, rehearsing it to every version of Quentin he could conjure up, wanting it to be perfect, clear, direct. What he hadn't expected was for Quentin not to respond. In that moment, as the silence grew and Quentin wouldn't meet his eyes, he understood the heartbreak he must have gone through after he had turned him down. When you've already had your mind set on spending the rest of your life with a person and they don't return your enthusiasm. When those dreams shatter at your feet and your future no longer gleams with hope. It feels like the end of the world.

But something was wrong. Something dark and terrifying was wrong with Quentin and he felt like he was just handed a puzzle with no pattern and no reference to follow. But it didn't matter. He would solve it. He would fix Quentin. It was only fair after all he'd been through, after all the pain he had suffered at the hands of Eliot's biggest mistake. But he couldn't help but be selfish as well. He missed him, he missed him so much it hurt, and he would do anything to gethisQuentin back.

He found himself dragging his thumb feather-light across the tear tracks lining Quentin's cheeks. He looked so peaceful in his sleep. He had cried for hours, it seemed, in what Eliot felt must be a breakdown long-coming. He didn't remember coming up here, to his old room from a life that felt so distant, didn't remember slipping into bed with Quentin, didn't remember falling asleep beside him. But he remembered Quentin's sobs, the jarring shake of his shoulders, the collar of his shirt soaked through with his tears. He couldn't even begin to imagine what he had to endure while trying to rid his body of the Monster. Eliot felt the heavy weight of guilt settle upon his chest, suffocating.

He wished this were the result of some curse, the culmination of something out of their control. But this was completely his doing. He's the one that brought upon that suffering. He's the one who wouldn't let him go, who decided shooting at the big bad was the best course of action, who got to sit in his own little mind palace while everyone else was shouldered with the consequences of his actions.

He let out a sigh, turning his head into the pillow and closing his eyes. Everything was a mess. His body was wrecked and everyone was avoiding him like he was a wet spot on the carpet, even Quentin couldn't look him in the eye. He--the Monster--had done something horrible, something pungent enough that it still haunted the group even after its death. But it had been less than twenty-four hours, he reasoned. Too soon to just let go. Things would get better. He would heal, catch up on some well-deserved beauty sleep and eventually feel comfortable in his own body again. Quentin would get back his smile, the icy blankness behind his eyes would melt and he would behisQ again. The others would warm up to him too, relax the pinch of their shoulders whenever he was in the room, stop giving him cursory glances anytime he walked by. With time all wounds would heal. At least, that's what he hoped.

* * *

He woke up to Quentin setting a steaming mug of coffee on the bedside table in front of him.

His stomach churned.

Those, what,three?pizzas were not sitting well with him. The bottomless hunger he had felt yesterday was replaced with a nauseating ache, as if his organs were being pinched and kneaded together like Play-doh.

As if reading his mind, Quentin held out a bottle of painkillers. "Sorry it's not the good stuff. The-the Monster got into some strong shit while he was. . .taking your body on a joyride." He could see Quentin's Adams apple bob as he swallowed. "Can't risk a relapse."

Eliot blinked up at him, a shivering, greasy haired mess, so worried about his wellbeing over his own.

"I understand," he whispered.

Quentin sniffed and went about helping Eliot sit up in bed, handing him two pills and the coffee to down them with. He knew they wouldn't do much, but it was the thought that counted.

"Josh is downstairs making breakfast. I told him to bring something up for you whenever it's done." Quentin was bustling with the things on the bedside table, talking in that fast, clipped way he did when he was trying to avoid the elephant in the room. He was always terrible at diversion.

Eliot reached forward and grabbed his wrist, pulling it towards him until Quentin had his knees pressed against the side of the mattress and his eyes on him. He looked surprised, but not scared, as if he were not used to being touched. Eliot's stomach sank and he warily wove their fingers together.

"What about you, Q?"

"Huh?"

Eliot ran his thumb over his knuckles. "When's the last time you ate?"

He felt his grip loosen as if he were about to pull away. His lips pressed together, eyes on the back wall. "Uh, I mean, I've eaten some-"

"When's the last time you took a shower?"

"I don't-"

Eliot swung his legs over the side of the bed, releasing Quentin's hand so he could take hold of his waist, grounding him like a kite whipping in the wind. "Here's the game plan, okay? You're going to take a nice, long shower, put on some non-blood-spattered clothes, and then meet me downstairs for the best breakfast of the century. Got it?"

There was the ghost of a smile on his face. Eliot's chest swelled with warmth at the sight.

"El, I'm supposed to be taking care ofyou."

Eliot couldn't help but shake his head as he pulled him closer, his knees bumping against his hips. "Have you seen yourself, you big idiot?" His voice was barely above a whisper, chin coming to rest on his sternum as he looked up at him. "You look like you could use a few hundred years of sleep and a meal fit for Henry VIII."

"I'm fine-"

Eliot reached up a hand and pressed it over his mouth before he could continue. "Quentin Coldwater, if I hear that come out of your mouth again, I'm going to sew your lips together."

He took his hand away and this time, a tight-lipped grin wobbled it's way across Quentin's cheeks, but in the blink of an eye, it's was gone, rolled between his teeth and masked by a weak sniffle and a hand brushing his hair behind his ear.

Eliot went cold and pulled back.

"What is it?"

Quentin merely shook his head and attempted to retreat, but Eliot only gripped him tighter. "Come on, Q, we leaned this lesson a long time ago. I know it's cheesy, but communication really is key."

He blinked down at him, lips pursed, brow creased. Eliot wished he could cast a spell to ease the tension he wrought from a lifetime of worry. He wished he could wave his fingers and make him happy again.

His hands, which had remained hesitant by his sides, came up to wrap around Eliot's biceps, his gaze gaining an almost terrifying weight as their eyes finally met.

"I guess. . ." he murmured, lips parted, trying to find the words. ". . .I guess I spent so long wondering if I'd ever get you back, I never thought about what would happen if I actually did. It doesn't feel real."

His eyes dropped between them, voice growing thick as his grip on Eliot's arms tightened ever so slightly. "I keep waiting for something to take you away again."

Eliot couldn't help but remember Fillory, the Fillory of their past together, the mosaic that had been their life's devotion. Those first couple years, Quentin had been so focused, determined to figure out the riddle that would bring them back to the present and back on track to the key quest. But as the years waned and they became more involved, with Arielle, with Teddy, with each other, he became more and more hesitant to finish each pattern. Eliot remembered one night, years after Arielle's death, Quentin clutched the final tile in his hand, unable to place it. When Eliot had asked what was wrong, he saw a tear slipping down his cheek in the light of the torches. He had said that he was afraid of what would happen if it were right, if they had finally solved it. Would finding the key take away everything they had built there together? Would it take away Teddy? Would it take Eliot away from him? Did he want to take that chance?

"I'm here," Eliot breathed, the same as that night by the mosaic. "I'm here," he let his arms slip from around Quentin's waist so he could take his hands in his, bringing them up to his face, resting them upon his cheeks. "I'm here, and I'm real. I'm never leaving you again."

Something akin to the warm light of the sun sparkled in Quentin's eyes, and for a moment Eliot felt the crushing dread loosen it's hold on him. A comforting quiet wrapped around them like a thick blanket, and it was just them, Quentin standing between his legs, his fingers tangling in his hair as he leaned down, their foreheads meeting, noses touching. He felt Quentin exhale, felt his muscles relax under his fingers, felt every ounce of grief finally drain itself from his body. In that moment Eliot knew he would do anything to help him, to help heal the man he loved.


	3. Imagine Being Loved By Me

**Sorry for the long wait, I was caught up in finals and stuff. But Happy Holidays! I guess this is my gift to you.**

* * *

He had never been so grateful to be alive in his life.

But this was pure hell.

In the kitchen there was a fully stocked wine cooler. Bottles of vodka and whiskey littered the coffee table in the living room. The bathroom cabinets were practically overflowing with every prescription medication known to the pharmaceutical industry. The hunger was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It felt as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, his body was dying, devouring itself from the inside out, like a clutch of insect eggs had been laid in his abdomen and had hatched and were now crawling around inside him, chewing through his intestines, wriggling around between his muscles and his skin.

But for once, he didn't want to indulge it.

Well, he sure as hell wanted the withdrawal symptoms to go away, but the fear of losing his grip on reality once again easily won out over the incessant cravings.

He'd been drifting for months.

It started out real enough. He was at Brakebills, delightfully doped up and shifting through the crowds of dancing people packed into the Physical Kids' cottage, just like any other day. Margo was there, resolute and facetious as always, the furniture was in its place, the floor was solid beneath his feet. He never questioned it. He just floated through each day in a euphoric haze, completely complacent with the possession of his own body.

But after he found out the truth, after he broke through to Quentin and his last connection to the outside world was severed, his little Happy Place soon fell apart. He couldn't remember if the couch was against the wall or by the fireplace. He couldn't remember the day, the month, the year. After a while, he could hardly remember Quentin's face, the shade of his hair, the tone of his voice. He forgot his own name. One by one, every aspect of his existence faded into thin air. Soon, all that was left was his own consciousness, blind and deaf and unfeeling, sinking deeper and deeper into the gaping black hole that had swallowed up all else.

He had no idea how long he was in there. There was no time. It could have been a couple minutes or a thousand years. All he knew was that one moment he was nothing and the next he was everything once again. The blackness cracked open and a blinding light poured in, searing, painful. He was alive. He was Eliot. And the first real thing he saw with his own two eyes since that tumultuous day in Castle Blackspire was him . Right there in front of him, flesh and bones and tears that rained down onto his face, that he could feel on his skin, taste upon his tongue.

The ground was once again solid beneath his feet. His lungs inflated with the thick New York smog with each breath. He was so often doubled over with a deep, bone-weary pain that he could hardly move, but it was real, and for the first time in his entire life he didn't want to hide from it.

His entire adolescence and early-twenties had been spent trying to escape. Escape his family, escape his town, escape bad relationships, escape loneliness, escape adulthood, escape his responsibilities, escape life. The Fillory and Further books just didn't cut it for him the way they did for Quentin. Eliot quickly turned to the hard stuff, the black-out-and-forget-everything stuff. He didn't want to remember, did want to exist. Drugs and booze were his escape, his way to check out of reality even for a short while. The harder things got, the more he took, trying everything to just run away from it all. That was one thing he was always good at.

But he had been given something precious. A reason to stay. A reason to want to remember. He couldn't forget. He couldn't wash it all away. He wanted to hold on. He wanted to experience it all, full force, no filters. He wanted to live.

It was the least he could do for Quentin, after all he'd done to save him.

So, he guessed he was giving up cold turkey. He was fine. He was totally fine. He'd been through worse before. Much worse. He could do this. He just had to push through it. It couldn't get much worse, could it?

* * *

It got so much worse.

The shower water had gone cold.

It did little to soothe his raw skin.

He had scrubbed, first with a sponge and soap, then with clawed hands and blunt nails, scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until he ripped open wounds old and new and blood seeped from his skin and turned the bubbles circling the drain pink.

He didn't know if he could ever feel clean again.

That first shower after his awakening, which quickly turned into a bath due to his trembling legs, the water had turned black. It felt as if the very sorrows of his soul were being leached from him. The layers of dried blood, the dirt, the grease from weeks of not washing was scraped from his skin and he was born anew. He was alive and that was all that mattered.

But now, about forty-eight hours later, a prickling discomfort had settled it's way under his skin. At first it was hard to pick apart from the constant, full body aches and pains, or the crazed symptoms of withdrawal, but as the hours went on he couldn't focus on anything else. He felt dirty, he felt sick. His stomach churned, he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He felt like he was losing his goddamn mind.

Scrubbing off the top few layers of skin did nothing to quell the itch. It went deeper than that. He couldn't look in the mirror. It was like looking at a doppelganger. So similar but there was something off, something so subtle it unsettled him. Someone else wearing his skin.

The thing that finally got him to turn the frigid water off and step out of the shower was the idea of Quentin finding him there like that, a pathetic, shivering mess. He didn't need the burden of putting him back on his feet again. He shouldn't have to worry about him.

* * *

But Quentin was gone. Margo had dragged him along to help with groceries. Eliot knew she was trying to help, to get him out of the apartment, which they had returned to once the dust had finally settled and Dean Fogg had ushered them and all their problems off of his campus, but it left him alone to his own devices in an unfamiliar place. He was supposed to be resting, but the overwhelming itch and the white-hot pain had forced him from the solace of his room, sent him searching high and low for a viable distraction.

It was Julia who found him wandering aimlessly through the dim halls and herded him into the repaired living room to sit on the long couch together.

She was an interesting creature. He never really knew her that well, and had actually held a great hatred for her for the longest time after that whole nightmare-coma spell she pulled on Quentin. That all felt like so long ago, when they still had petty squabbles and school yard cliques. He now knew that people were far more complex than just good and bad, that Julia was probably one of the only people that loved Quentin almost as much as he did, and that love can be muddled and confusing and vengeful. That you can make mistakes. He sure had made plenty, many involving Quentin, and though he was often a hypocrite, he couldn't bring himself to harbor that same anger towards Julia that he had so many years ago.

He took in her warm, heart-shaped face, every inch so engraved with this terrifying sort of wisdom that he hadn't seen since that fateful day in castle Blackspier, when she had appeared before them, glistening and glowing with awesome the power of a god, which she sacrificed to save all of magic, save all of their lives. He was never able to follow her story all that well, always concerned with whatever other apocalyptic-level issue was on his plate at the moment. One moment she was a goddess, the next, she wasn't. Now, she was something in between, some sort of life changing revelation he wasn't fully aware of had happened after the whole Monster-removal-mission that enlightened her to the true nature of her powers, and now she was some sort of half-human, half-god hybrid that he couldn't even begin to understand. But she seemed to be taking it well, so he assumed everything was good.

She blinked her hooded eyes up at him and gave him that all-knowing smirk.

"What's on your mind?"

He knew she didn't need to ask. His pain was clean in every taut muscle, in every shaking finger, in every bead of sweat gathered upon his brow. He was sure she was able to sense it from a mile away, but that wasn't a thought he wanted to linger on.

He let out a breathy laugh. "Oh, you know, just wondering if I should go full '07 Britney or more Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch."

She shook her head, taking one of his hands from his lap and pulling it into hers, clasping her steady fingers around his. He almost pulled away, surprised by the strange static-like pinpricks that her fingertips left along his skin. Instead he cleared his throat and let his eyes hang upon the window sill over her shoulder.

"Come on, you know what I'm asking." Her voice was rough and sincere, her face showed no signs of the pity or sympathy he had seen plastered on the faces of his friends since he had gotten back. And for the first time in probably his entire existence, he didn't feel the urge to deflect. Something about her coaxed the words from deep inside him, had them sitting anxiously on the tip of his tongue, and he sincerely wanted to let them free. When he looked at her, for a reason he couldn't fully understand, he wanted to tell her everything.

So he did. It wasn't his most graceful moment. By the end of it he had cried himself into an extremely unattractive puddle on the couch cushions. But Julia, with all her unwavering serenity, gripped his hand tightly through it all, silent but attentive, just sitting and listening to him spew out a torrential mess of enough emotional baggage and personal trauma to fill a whole five part mini-series, more intently than he probably deserved from a friend which he had treated so poorly in the past.

And he told her everything. He told her about his childhood, his daddy issues, his past life with Quentin, his absolutely overwhelming and terrifying love for him, his remorse for his rejection of him, being possessed by the Monster, the Happy Place, his fear of Quentin's mental state. Everything. And through the tears he tried to put into words his current withdrawal-compounded identity crisis that was the real reason she had come to his aid, but oh well, who doesn't need an impromptu therapy session between casual acquaintances every so often?

It was at that point that she finally spoke up, a crease forming between her eyebrows and her mouth curling into an uncharacteristic grimace as her eyes trailed the pattern on the pillow between them.

"I know the feeling. Something's just. . .off, like there was a central piece of you, chipped off somewhere during the fight, but you can't figure out from where. Interacting with gods can be at bitch."

He sniffled and gave an unsure nod, his chest tightening at the realization that she was talking about the whole ordeal with Reynard.

She sighed, a sudden weight settling upon her shoulders, and for a moment she seemed purely human again. "I'm not going to lie and tell you that it'll fade eventually. You just deal with the discomfort until it becomes your new normal." She didn't meet his eyes, rubbing her thumb gently over his knuckles, her mouth tense. "You can never get that part of you back, you just have to mourn it and move on, or else you'll be searching for it forever."

Eliot swallowed hard and nodded again, shifting in his seat. It was not the advice he had expected, the 'it'll all get better' with the ingenuine pat on the back he'd received through his entire life.

She gave him a sad smile, and that unearthly glow seeped back into her eyes, her shoulders straightening. Her small hand gave his a firm squeeze, and a pulse of warmth ran through him. He was intrigued by how normal she looked. Long, flowing hair, earnest eyes, a t-shirt and jeans. But there was something else there, something he just couldn't put a finger on. Her power was sewn into every inch of her being, subtle but strong in the most profound ways. He could hardly imagine that erratic hedge witch he'd encountered so many years ago. She was something altogether different.

"It's good to let everything out sometimes," she reached up and wiped the tears from his cheek with a ringed thumb, the metal cool against his skin, "but you have to get up and get back to your life eventually." Her palm came to rest on his cheek, thumb wrapping around his chin, and it suddenly felt like she was the only thing in the room. Her voice took on a biting edge that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"If you don't get back up, then they are winning."

Then she pulled away and the world around him came back into sharp focus. His whole body was tingling.

"It's hard. But it's worth it. Things will never be the same, but they will get better. You just have to ease into it. Start with the small things. Get a routine, make new habits, create new memories. Keep doing that every day until doesn't feel wrong anymore. One day you'll realize that you're farther away from it all than you'd ever thought you'd be. It'll be a distant memory.

"Quentin needs help too. I know he's scared right now, on edge, but it's still early in the game. He can't shake everything that happened with the Monster. You need to help him distance himself from that, remind him of his life before it all, his life with you, and translate it to his life now. Forget the in-between. He needs to see you as you again. Do something you did with him before, something familiar, inherently you. Remind him of who he used to be. Hopefully it will break him free from this destructive cycle he's fallen into."

He blinked a couple times, throat tightening at her onslaught of advice. It was overwhelming. It was blunt. But it was true. That was what scared him.

A hand gripped his shoulder and he looked back up at her. Her smile held the warmth of early morning sun rays.

"Hey, if there's anyone that can do it, it's definitely you."

Still struck dumb, he fell into her arms, burying his face into the silky waves of her hair. She let out a laugh and wrapped her arms around him, hooking her chin around his shoulder.

They sat like that for a moment, her hand rubbing circles on his back as he tried to gather himself. He was exhausted. They couldn't have been sitting there more than an hour, but it felt like he'd been crying all day. Now he didn't want to move. In her arms he felt light, felt all the pain and the stress drain from his body and be replaced with an unearthly sense of tranquility that he wanted to drown in.

She pulled away slightly, just enough to look him in the eye. She stroked the frazzled hair back from his forehead thoughtfully. "Just remember that you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of others."

He nodded and felt the hot prickle of tears forming in his eyes once again.

"Thank you, Julia. Really, I didn't realize how much I needed this," he breathed, voice hoarse and fragile.

"No need to thank me. It is my life's purpose to help others. Never be afraid to ask me to lessen your pain. It is what my gift is meant for."

She continued to stroke his hair, eyes losing focus, eyebrows pinching together in thought. He began to grow concerned.

"What is it?"

Her eyes met his again, and the smile made its way back to her cheeks. Her gaze was unwavering, terrifyingly forthright.

"Do not worry. You will find your way one day, Eliot Waugh."


	4. My Baby's Sweet as Can Be

**I'm absolutely wiped out after the Christmas, but I thought I should get one more chapter before the new year, or new decade, I guess. It's a fluffy one, so I hope you'll enjoy it. This story has been getting a bit more attention lately in what I'm guessing is the hiatus-home-stretch as everyone is getting excited about the new season. Since the last season ended rather unfavorably, I'm here to serve your Queliot needs in these trying times. **

* * *

Things were better. Julia had been helping him out when the pain meds didn't cut it. The withdrawl symptoms had been mitigated enough that they weren't eating him alive any longer. He'd managed to get out of bed and get ready for the day without much trouble, and that alone had him feeling accomplished. But he still had one promise left to do good on.

He was still feeling pretty confident when he approached Quentin that evening.

"Do you remember when I was teaching Teddy how to dance?"

His mouth went dry. They hadn't mentioned their past lives since he'd gotten back, for reasons that became all too clear as the words left his mouth. Even saying his lost son's name struck a chord within his heart, and the yearning for that life, the simplicity, the sanctity of it, crashed over him like raging waves in a storm.

The look on Quentin's face as he gave him a harrowed glance from under his curtain of hair made him wish he could rewind time and go about this a different way.

But he was pretty much a Magic School Dropout and hadn't stayed long enough to learn reverse entropy spells, so he took a breath and forged on.

". . .You were supposed to be my demonstration partner, but you were so shit that I had to teach you first."

From his chair opposite Eliot, Quentin's shoulders visibly relaxed, and he let out a quiet snort, tucking his hair behind his ear.

"Yeah, I kept stepping on your toes," he murmured, and Eliot swore caught a hint of a smile creeping its way onto his face.

Eliot couldn't help but smile too. It felt like spring had dawned upon the reserved chill of the room, like the icy wall between them had melted just the slightest bit.

He stood slowly, limbs buzzing with nervous energy, approaching Quentin like a wildlife photographer would approach an unknowing fawn, slowly and with caution, terrified of scaring him away. He looked at him as he came up beside him, eyes wide and questioning, hands gripped around the mythology book in his lap that he been tucked into all day. He suddenly wanted to backtrack, go back to his secluded corner and give Quentin the space he needed. But it had been weeks, maybe he felt as lonely as Eliot did. Maybe he thought he needed to give the other man space as well. Maybe they were both being emotionally-stunted idiots and needed to get their heads out of their asses and move on. Eliot couldn't pretend to know. The only plan he had right now was to follow Julia's advice, so he had no other choice but to stick to it. So he swallowed the lump in his throat, and held out an appeasing hand, palm up, his patented falsely-confident smile gracing his cheeks.

"Would you like to test your memory, see if you still have the same moves?" He cringed internally. God, why did that come out sounding so cheesy? You would think they were in some shitty rom-com if their lives weren't so wrought with loss and destruction.

But the memories the words conjured weren't so desolate. He had really tried teaching him how to dance. But despite his best efforts, he could never get Quentin to execute anything more than a simple waltz without him tripping over his own feet and making a fool of himself. It took him years, but he finally accepted that his love was a lost cause. It was a miracle that Teddy managed to come out of all that a spectacular dancer, at least by Fillory's standards, when he had inherited so much else from his father. He missed him so much.

Quentin did too. He could tell the same memories were running through his head, a pained expression passing over his features, his eyes losing focus. For a moment he was scared that he lost him, that his efforts had all fallen by the wayside and he was retreating back into himself again, but to his surprise he gave a slight nod, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table, giving him another shallow glance before laying his hand upon his own.

Eliot's whole body lit up with an anxious fire, pausing for a brief moment to collect himself before he pulled Quentin up from his seat, doing all he could not to constantly look at him over his shoulder as he lead him into the kitchen, the only area not littered with gaudy, postmodern, vintage-esque furniture.

When he turned around to face Quentin, he almost fell apart at the seams. God, what was he doing? When Julia said to do something familiar, she probably just meant like eating dinner together or something. Not dredge up the most mournful parts of their past while shuffling around in the dimly lit kitchen of an apartment they were technically squatting in. God, he was stupid. He was too eager, too desperate to get back what they once had, he was crossing the line, leaping over it, the one he had drawn when he had turned Quentin down. He must hate him for that, must be distancing himself as a form of punishment-

"Do you have a song in mind?" Quentin asked, so close. They were barely a foot away from one another.

Eliot looked down at him, almost having to physically shake himself from his own thoughts. He felt overwhelmed. The itch, the rambling, obsessive overthinking, had taken up permanent residence within his head and were growing ever more pressing each day since his return to the real world. There wasn't room for much else.

As if sensing his distress, Quentin began to rub circles on the fingers gripping his. Eliot let out a choked sigh.

"Uh, yeah, let's see." He drew his hand away from Quentin's, fingers shaking as he stuttered through a song spell, not even sure of what he was hoping to play. For a moment it was silent, and he cursed himself, thinking he must have screwed up his finger positions in all his haste, but soon the quiet strums of a guitar could be heard floating through the air, disembodied and lilting, as if it were drifting in from an open window. It took him a moment to recognize it, as it was something he hadn't heard in over a decade. The memory was worn, faded, as in reality a whole lifetime laid between it and him. He remembered one of his older brothers sitting on a stool in the corner of a shed, plucking at their father's old guitar. It was an ancient song, far older than him, older than his parents, grandparents. He didn't know the name. He and his mother stood in the center of the shed, and she taught him how to dance. It was a slow song, one that left too much room for missteps and fumbles, but his mother lead him through it, and his brothers watched, never joining in, but always chiming in with their opinion. It was a fond enough memory, a very deliberate one, he suspected. He wondered if Julia had searched through his thoughts to find it, planted it there for him to find. He wondered if she knew this was going to happen.

His lungs burned as he took a deep breath in through his nose, stepping forward and slipping a cautious hand around Quentin's waist, his other hand finding its way to his again, lifting it up and intertwining their fingers.

For a breath, they were still, stiff and unsure. He searched Quentin's face for any sort of reaction, but he seemed all too content on focusing on the top most button of Eliot's shirt.

In the next breath, he was leading them forward, drowning out his thoughts with the music and the exhilarating feeling of being so close to Quentin, touching him. He had been but a figment of his own imagination for months, slowly fading into obsolescence just like everything else he had once held so dear as his little world grew dark and cold and lonely. But now he was right here, real and tangible and oh so warm. It took all he had in him to maintain his composure and not sob in relief at his feet.

Surprisingly, Quentin hadn't completely forgotten all he had attempted to teach him. He followed easily, like muscle memory, knowing each move Eliot was going to make before he even made it. He knew it was little more than strategically walking in a small circle, but pride warmed his chest just as it did all those years ago as Teddy pranced around them, cheering them on.

Growing bold, he lifted up their arms and spun him around, and the quiet laugh Quentin let out made him fucking glisten. When he fell back into his arms, Eliot couldn't help but just stare at him, and after a beat, those warm brown eyes finally moved up to meet his, and it left him breathless.

His mother had told him once that when you fell in love with someone, they became the most beautiful person in the world. He thought she was just making it up, because love didn't exist. His mother didn't love his father, his father didn't love his children, and he would never love anyone.

He had to admit, he never envisioned himself ending up with someone like Quentin. All of his hookups and flavor of the weeks had been more of the supermodel type, the ones with the chiseled jaws and washboard abs, eye-candy. Quentin was none of those. But he was more stunning than any man that walked the planet, Eliot was sure of it. And it terrified him.

Because his mother, in all her superstitious and cryptic ways, had been right. He couldn't tell you when he finally stopped having eyes for anyone else. It was a slow realization, full of denial and daddy-issues and bullshit. But one day he finally decided there was no one more beautiful than Quentin Coldwater, with his dopey smile and his long floppy hair and his love of nerdy shit. It was the day that he promised himself that if they ever got back to Earth and everything finally settled, he was taking his ass to Comic-Con that he knew he was too far gone. There was no going back. But he didn't want to.

This was the man that managed to get Eliot Waugh, self-proclaimed king of debauchery and self-destruction, to settle down into the monotony of domesticity and raise a family together. This was the man that gave Eliot everything he never knew he wanted, showered him with the love he had convinced himself he would never have, and gifted him a beautiful life that he believed only existed in fairytales. How did he ever manage to find someone who cared about him that much? How could he have ever wanted to get rid of that?

It took him a few seconds to realize that they had stopped moving, another few to notice the tears stinging in his eyes. Quentin still hadn't looked away, and was in fact gripping onto his shoulders and gazing up at him with concern.

"What's wrong?"

Eliot shook his head, letting out a wet chuckle as he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "Nothing, darling. Nothing at all."

He didn't miss the way his lips quirked up at the word. Darling . It had been so long since he called him that. So full of endearment, so full of love.

They were so close. Chest to chest, arms wrapped around each other, the music encircling them. Quentin laid his head upon his shoulder, and they swayed back and forth together. Eliot gripped him tight, one hand on the small of his back, the other tangled in the frustratingly short strands of his hair. He was afraid to let him go. Afraid of letting this moment end. Because for the first time in a long time, he felt safe. There in that kitchen, with the pale fluorescent lights and the cold tile floors and the horrible grey slate countertops, there was some semblance of normalcy that he had craved for months, years, his entire life. The last time he'd had that, it was a time far away and altogether mythical, years whiled away in a cottage in a forest in the middle of nowhere. Where he would make breakfast for his family every morning with the vegetables harvested from their garden the week before, spend a couple hours by the mosaic performing the comfortably tedious task of laying out tiles, eat dinner, spend the evening chasing their son around the grassy clearing until the sun disappeared behind the trees and the lightning bugs came out and he would tell stories about wizards and dragons and courageous knights until they all drifted to sleep and woke up the next morning to do it all again. All with Quentin by his side. He wouldn't have given that up for the world.

But he did.

And he was an idiot for it.

It was something he couldn't stop coming back to. It was a broken record, that moment playing over and over again in his head, constantly reliving the remorse and the self-hatred. Even though he'd come clean, had finally admitted his feelings to Quentin like he was a high school crush, things weren't miraculously repaired. He knew it was delusional to think everything would slot back into place and they could have what they once did together. They were young once again, plopped back into their tumultuous post-Brakebills lives, where things weren't as simple as peaches and plums. There was so much more resting on their shoulders, so much history between them, so much turmoil. This was a new start, and he didn't want it to start off on the wrong foot. Didn't want to continue this wishy-washy, non-committal bullshit that had pushed them apart before. He wouldn't let Quentin slip from his fingers once again.

"Q?" Eliot breathed, eyes closed, stroking the back of Quentin's head.

"Hmm?" he responded. He could feel the vibration of it against his chest.

The music faded in and out, like a wavering candle. Eliot became lost in it for a moment.

At his pause, Quentin looked up at him, hands coming to rest on his hips as he met his gaze with one of mild intrigue.

His large hands came up to frame his face, firm but gentle, fingertips pressing into his hairline, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones. His eyes prickled once again with oncoming tears, but he didn't blink them away. He didn't want shy from the man in front of him, not again. He wanted to look him right in the face, wanted him to see the full force of his sincerity, wanted him to hold onto the words that slipped from his lips in a trembling whisper.

"I'm never running away again."

He meant it with every part of his being. It was a promise, a promise he would take to his grave. He was done hiding from the idea of happiness. He wanted to embrace it, wanted to fucking wear it on his sleeve and parade it around and wallow in it. He wanted to escape from his past and look forward to the future. He wanted to buy a house in the goddamn suburbs and have a white picket fence and two kids and a dog if that's what his life with Quentin entailed. Because life with Quentin was happiness. Quentin Coldwater was his everything. He was never running away from that again.

It was a promise, a promise he sealed with a kiss, chaste and sweet. And when they pulled away, Quentin laid his head upon his chest, Eliot looped his arms around his shoulders, and they swayed along to the music once again.

* * *

**I hope everyone had a good holiday season and has a great new year! Thanks for reading!**


	5. No Grand Choirs to Sing

**And here we are, at the final chapter. I'd love to continue is story, but I have, or I'd like to believe that I have, moved on from the Magicians. I loved being a part of the fandom, and I loved the show for a time, but I just cannot support what it has become, and I can't subject myself to another ruthless heartbreak like the one that I faced at the end of season 4. I may revisit this story or this fandom, but for the time being this is the end. I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

"You want to get coffee or go to the book shop first?"

The sky was sinking into a musty orange upon the horizon, only visible through the slight gaps between the skyscrapers that towered above them. The world was all slanting shadows and rumbling car engines. Quentin couldn't help but take each thing in one at a time, slow and meticulous, an observer from the outside in. He'd always been like that, an audience member rather than the star of the show, but he didn't mind it. It was peaceful, quiet.

Eliot had come to him that morning with hashbrowns and the suggestion that they get out of the apartment for the day. It took Quentin two hours to finish off the hashbrowns, another six to finally find the willpower to get out of bed and manage to look semi-put together. When he finally emerged from his room Eliot stood from the couch and smiled at him like he hadn't just left him waiting for an entire day, asking him if he was ready to go.

Now they walked side by side, weaving in and out of the bustling crowds of people in relative silence.

He couldn't help but look at Eliot too, his skin taking on an unearthly golden glow in the light of the afternoon sun. He'd recovered more quickly than anyone expected, the sallow tone and the bruised eyes fading within a week, and he'd put the lost weight back on easily, looking decidedly less frail and a lot more like his old self. Appearances aside, he didn't act like someone who had been possessed just two months before. But he didn't act like Eliot either.

There was small things, like the way he dressed. They were the same clothes, but less severe. In the first days he'd held tightly onto that old person he used to be, the persona he'd worked so hard to create and uphold. But along the way he must have realized the effort was futile, as he'd lost that long before the Monster had come along, and slowly but surely he had completely discarded all the excessive vests and handkerchiefs and silk shirts from his wardrobe. Most days he usually went with a nice fitted pant and a simple button-up shirt, something familiar but altogether different in a way that unnerved him. It was a level of casual Quentin had only seen in Fillory, when Eliot had finally let his walls down, when their old Earth clothes had finally withered into threads and they let all they used to have drift into the past and started to look on into the future.

But there was something else different about him that Quentin just couldn't place. Something underlying, something inherent. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like being possessed. From what Eliot had told him, it didn't seem like a walk in the park. And Quentin sure wasn't about flaunting your trauma on your sleeve, but he looked unusually. . . happy. Once Julia had made a habit of being his own personal morphine drip and he was able to actually get out of bed, he'd taken to making breakfast early each morning for everyone in the apartment. Quentin could always hear him singing show tunes through the floor of his bedroom as he bustled around the kitchen. He lit up everytime the other man entered the room, like the wilting, unshowered form that slunk through the halls was the greatest thing to walk the Earth. He had an uncharacteristic ease to him, unlike the more poised, controlled ease he'd held in their Brakebills era. It was real now. He made his way through each day like he knew exactly what he was doing, like he'd found something deep within that prison the Monster had crafted for him that had given him a new lease on life.

Like he'd found the answer.

Eliot looked back at him and raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk curling on his cheeks. "A bit distracted?"

Quentin could feel his cheeks warm. He didn't realize he was staring.

He turned away and cleared his throat. "Uh, the book shop sounds good."

* * *

Quentin wandered through the aisles, fingers trailing lightly along the worn book spines, aimless. He didn't know what he was looking for. Was he looking for anything? He hadn't read for pleasure in years. It was just research, whether it be to pass a spellcasting exam or find out how to kill a god. Books used to be an escape for him. The used bookstore in his hometown had been like a second home. The fantasy novels had started out as a casual hobby, but as the years went on and the world opened up to him in all its depressing glory, he'd throw himself deeper and deeper into the fantastical stories until he finally fell in too deep, and decided he wanted to stay there.

It was just his luck that it would all turn out to be real.

For as long as he could remember, Fillory had been his home. He'd spent years pretending he was one of the Chatwin kids, that he was a part of their adventures, went on the quests, met the strange creatures, saw all the stunning places. All he wanted was to run away like they did, to live in a world of magic and wish-granting rabbits and velveteen horses where life wasn't so full of sadness and dread. God, he wished he could go back and tell his younger self what a fucking idiot he was.

"Hey Q, come here." Eliot's voice drifted from a few rows over, shaking him from his thoughts. He followed the sound until he found the taller man in front of a section labeled FANTASY CLASSICS , a small brown book held out in his hand.

He felt his stomach drop.

There it was, Fillory and Further: A World in the Walls, book one of the Fillory and Further series by Christopher Plover.

Eliot pressed it into his hand. "It's a first edition. I know that creep signed your only copy, and look, this one's in pretty good condition."

He froze. The book felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, a stone weight in his grip.

"Do you want it?"

He stood there for a moment, eyes hung upon the clock printed upon the cover, the silhouettes of the children who climbed so eagerly through. Did they have the same dreams? Did they too wish to escape their lives, to escape their pain and their loneliness? Those poor kids, lured into believing that that world would save them. They couldn't have known what would come from stepping through that clock. The very clock that sat, waiting, in the living area of the Physical Kids cottage.

He remembered that day by the Rainbow Bridge, after Eliot had been chosen as the new King of Fillory, what felt like a lifetime ago. Their problems then seemed so small now. The Beast was coming for them, he and Alice had just broken up, and he was mad that he wasn't the main character of this story. But in that brief moment, as they played kings and queens like little kids, everything seemed like it might be okay. Quentin couldn't have known what a monumental can of worms he was opening that day. He couldn't have known he was leading his friends to their own graves. He couldn't have known Fillory's grasp would reach so far, consume so much. He was just a sad kid looking for answers. But he had lost everything.

He put the book back on the shelf then turned and headed for the door.

* * *

Eliot sipped at his coffee and played with the crumpled napkin on the table in front of him. Quentin hadn't touched his drink, shoulders tense as he stared out the window. The mood had soured. The sun had gone down. The street lamps were dim and yellow and washed out the faces of the people walking by. They looked like ghosts.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. He felt sick. His head hurt. He wanted to lie down, wanted to curl up under his covers and never get up again. He wished he had never left the apartment in the first place. He knew Eliot was just trying to help, just trying to be nice, but the sight of the book had sent him spiraling. He was angry. He'd been angry for a long time. The past months had given him a lot of time to sit and think. Think about his mistakes, think about his regrets, think about his life. In that time he'd come to a conclusion that terrified him. He'd gone back and forth on it for weeks, mulled it over until he was blue in the face, but in the end he always came back to it. He couldn't ignore it any longer.

"I. . .I don't want to do magic anymore."

It was quiet. There wasn't anyone else in the cafe except the barista, who was tucked away in a corner on her phone. Eliot didn't react for a moment, though his hand stilled on the tabletop, his eyebrows creasing minutely.

Quentin took a deep breath in through his nose, preparing for backlash, preparing to argue and get nowhere then go home and not talk to each other for a day.

Eliot lifted his head and looked straight at him, gaze unnervingly earnest. "Okay."

Okay?

He wasn't expecting that.

He shuffled in his seat, feeling as if he'd been knocked off his axis, wobbling off-beat and unguided. He didn't know how to continue. He'd been coasting through the day in a comfortable haze, content to detach and zone out until he could make it back home and shut out the world again, but with that one sentence he had brought everything into a blinding clarity, sharp and raw and loud and all too real.

The man across from him sat back, arms falling into his lap and his face relaxing into something between stern and benevolent as he spoke gently.

"Tell me why."

He wanted to laugh. That was a tall order. Should he start at the beginning? His parents' divorse? The hospitalizations? His failed relationships? Should he skip to the good parts? Summoning the Beast? Watching his girlfriend die? Killing a god? Or what about last month when he nearly blew up a New York block in a last desperate attempt to expel a murderous ex-god from the body of the man that had slowly become his only reason to keep living? One of his therapists had told him it was best to start at the present and work backward, find the connections. But what did that matter, it was probably all bullshit anyways.

His chin fell to his chest and he sniffled bitterly. "You know, I think I lost faith in it a long time ago, I just didn't want to admit it to myself."

He looked at his hands, sitting palm up in his lap. Back when he first started at Brakebills, he toiled through months of Poppers and hand exercises before he was actually allowed to cast a spell. He couldn't even recall what it was, but he remembered the warm, pinprick sensation of magic channeling through his fingers, the overwhelming feeling of awe as he stood there, staring at his own two hands which had just made real motherfucking magic for the first time. It felt like a dream.

He shook his head and curled his hands into fists.

"I don't deserve this power," he muttered. "I've made far too many mistakes with it. I've endangered too many lives. It's dangerous, and it should have never been placed in my hands. I know Jane Chatwin thought that I was the one, that I was the only one who would stop the Beast, save Fillory. I don't know why. She saw firsthand how many times I failed. It took me forty tries to finally get it right. But did she really expect me to keep getting it right after that? Why did she have so much faith in me?"

His gaze drifted out the window again and he paused for a moment to watch the group of people talking by the lamp post down the street. They were smiling, laughing. Unburdened. Would he have been that way, had he never known about magic? Would he have ever found peace?

"Nothing good comes from meddling with magic. Solving one problem always leads to the creation of another, bigger one. And it just snowballs until you are faced with the end of the world. Was it worth it? Was all the destruction worth it for the sake of magic? Was it worth the lives of my friends? Was it worth my own father? Was it worth my sanity? I can't believe it took me so long, losing so much, to finally see the light. I really thought I'd cracked it. I really thought that magic could solve anything. I was so deluded, thinking I'd finally found that missing piece, the part of me that felt unwhole for so long. I suddenly couldn't imagine a world without it. And when I was confronted by that world, all I knew was that I had to get it back. But of course, that only lead to another, bigger problem."

His voice was shaking now, throat growing tight. He blinked away the hot tears gathering in his eyes and finally looked up, a fruitless attempt to match the monumental weight of Eliot's gaze.

"I think it was the thought of losing you again that finally made everything click."

"Q. . ." Eliot breathed, his hand reaching out across the table, reaching for him. For the briefest moment, he hesitated, eyes settling heavily upon the upturned palm. But he took in a shallow breath and laid his hand upon the other man's, whose long fingers instantly wrapped around his, warm and grounding.

He'd wanted so many things in life. He wanted an escape, and he got it, then he lost it. He wanted magic, and he got it, then he lost it. He wanted love, and he got it, and he almost lost it, but here it was, right in front of him, alive and safe and he didn't want to risk losing it again. Wanting endlessly only lead to loss, but keeping hold of the things you had and cherishing them, that had to be something. That had to be a solution, because if it wasn't, Quentin didn't know what the world wanted from him.

"I don't want to be the hero. I don't want the weight of the world on my shoulders. I thought that was the life I wanted, but that's not me. That's a fucking delusion I dreamed up as a teenager just to get through each day. I get it. I learned my lesson. That's the end. That's the end of my story. I just want to be normal again."

Their coffee had long gone cold. The barista was wiping down the tables and putting the chairs up. He could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing above them.

Eliot leaned forward, bringing his other hand up to encase Quentin's, eyes a bit wide as they searched the wood grain for the right words before flicking up to meet his.

"I get it, Q, I definitely do. I'm not a fucking king," he laughed, shaking his head. "I'm just an egotistical theater kid from Indiana who dreamed too big and pushed my luck one too many times. I learned my lesson too. I don't need hand-sewn vests from Italy or the crown to a mystical land or silly magic tricks. All I need is you and I'll be happy," he said, lifting his hand up and pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

Quentin sat up in his seat, sputtering in momentary surprise. "Y-you don't have to give all that up for me."

He gave him a fleeting smile, a slight roll of the eyes. "I'm not giving it up. I'm deciding that that's not what I want. Like a mature adult. Just like I decided to go sober. It's for the best and it will only help me in the future."

"Wait, really?" He was so genuinely caught off guard that he couldn't even bring himself to tease. "That's great!"

He waved a hand in dismissal. "Well, I was already halfway there by the time I got back, thanks to you, so I thought, why not just see it through?"

"Seriously? That's a huge change. A really fucking difficult one, that's for sure." He picked up his untouched coffee and held it up in invitation for cheers. "You know what, I'll give up drinking in solidarity. Smoking too, I should have never started back."

Eliot dropped his head onto their linked hands, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Quentin, you don't have to do that."

"Like you said, I'm just deciding that's not what I want. Like an adult." He shrugged, cheeks warming. "And, I'd do it for you anyways."

When Eliot's eyes met his again, there was an alarming sort of intensity to his stare, a tension in his jaw that he couldn't place. But then the beat passed and the corners of his mouth twitched up and he plucked his mug off the table and clinked it against Quentin's. Something in him expected some serendipitous fireworks to go off somewhere in the city, signalling the start of a new chapter, but the moment just faded graciously into the deep blue night marked by the halos of passing headlights and the hum of tires along the cooling streets.

"So that's it, we're giving up magic?" Eliot quipped, almost in disbelief.

"And drinking, and smoking, and recreational drugs, apparently. It's been a busy day," he chuckled, and he felt good, better than he had in a long time. A weight had been lifted, his mind was now clear.

"It's not like it's that big of a deal," continued Eliot, "we lived without magic for the majority of our lives, well, our lives within the linear flow of time, so it shouldn't be that difficult. And it doesn't have to be set in stone. Maybe we need a break, just put it on the back burner for a bit while we figure everything else out. It's like you said, we just need a bit of normalcy for once."

"If we can even figure out what that's supposed to be," he muttered, and Eliot laughed, and it was suddenly the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.

The other man twisted his hand so he could intertwine their fingers, his slotting between Quentin's like fine machinery, made for each other. "Yeah, that might take a while."

And for a second he faltered, feeling as if the ground had been ripped out from under him, breath catching in his throat because in that moment it all finally clicked.

Because Eliot was giving him that look again, the same look he gave him that day in that park all those months ago, in those precious few seconds after he'd broken free from the Monster and spoken to him for the first time since Blackspire. He had looked at him like he had found the one thing he'd spent his whole life searching for.

He was looking at him like he was the answer.

He blinked a couple times, vision going out of focus. His body trilled like a rung bell, a steel grip clamping around his heart. How long had it been, how long had it been since Eliot decided that he. . . Why did he think that he was. . . Why him ? He had said that he would never have chosen him, but somewhere along the way he had, sometime between their past lives and now he had decided Quentin was all he needed. Had it been a conscious decision? Did he have any doubts? Why him? Why the clinically depressed supernerd who had a big problem with staying alive? Why the man who had dragged him to hell and back chasing a dream he would never reach? Why the man who was so afraid of losing him again that he wouldn't tell him he loved him?

He felt a tug on his hand and Eliot was standing before him, saying they needed to go. He left himself be pulled from his seat and out the door, the street lights and signs bleeding and blending together, his feet stumbling underneath him as he blindly followed, still numb from shock.

His heart was aching, pounding against his ribs. Eliot's hand was gripped tightly around his. He wanted. . .he'd wanted for so long. . . He was tired of wanting. Eliot was right in front of him, waiting for him with open arms. He'd had him for so long, why had he been holding back? Was he scared of finally getting what he wanted, of not having anything to lack, of not being empty anymore? Was he scared of finding the answer? Or was he scared that there may not be one?

He stopped in his tracks, their hands slipping apart, his falling to his side like a dead weight. He felt dizzy, like the world was whirling around him and he was stock still, there at the center of it all.

He was absolutely terrified.

"El?"

And he was right there, right in front of him, the concerned lines of his face casting strange shadows across his features. But even in the dingy yellow light and his plain button up he still looked just as stunning as the day they first met, when he thought that he'd found what he'd been missing within the sprawling campus of Brakebills, when in reality he'd left it behind on the front lawn with barely a second glance.

When he'd gotten him back from the Monster, that first day, Eliot had told him something about being brave. He told him that he loved him.

Quentin stepped forward and roughly took Eliot's face in his trembling hands, dragging him down so he could bring their lips together at last.

God, it had been so long.

He had missed this. The hot pressure of his lips sliding against his, the strong hand grasping the back of his neck, the long fingers trailing down the notches of his spine. He shivered under his touch, burrowing further into the warmth of his chest, hands tracing the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulders. The bitter taste of coffee stained the inside of his mouth, the musty scent of dusk clinging to his skin.

It was only when the other man pulled away that he realized he was crying again.

Quentin's hands curled into the folds of Eliot's shirt, and Eliot gently wiped the tears from his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He didn't know why he was crying, but he did at least know that for once he felt okay. It wasn't the end of the world. Everyone, for the most part, was alive and okay. There was nothing to worry about, for the moment. And Eliot was here. He was here holding him in his arms like there was nothing else in the entire world.

Something had shifted in him. Like tectonic plates that have been grinding against each other for years, causing the very ground to quake, only to finally shift apart and settle into a quiet peace. He'd spent the majority of his life running from the idea of mundanity. Living in a quaint little neighborhood, working a nine to five job each day, seemed like it would be the death of him. He always believed that he was meant for greater things. But why did he have to be? Those years at the mosaic had been the antithesis of all of his childhood dreams, but he had been happy. Going on quests and fighting monsters, that had brought him nothing but suffering.

He wanted mundanity. He craved it. And he wanted it with Eliot. He had told him as much, all those months ago after they'd remembered their long past together in Fillory. He'd wanted to do it all again. But after Eliot had turned him down, he pushed those feelings down, masked them in front of Eliot, then in front of the Monster for the sake of his own survival. He hid them so far away that he thought they had faded away completely.

But there on that sidewalk outside the coffee shop in the looming shadows of skyscrapers, everything came rushing back in a wave so forceful it nearly knocked him off his feet.

"God, Eliot," he choked out. "I-I. . .I love you."

The other man took in a shallow breath and pressed his forehead against his.

"I love you too."


End file.
